


Nothing More but Counting Stars

by nanailliterate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers, harry wants to help zayn, harry's a real sweetheart, it's not graphic or too dark but I want to make sure everyone understands what is in this fic, on the shorter side and I hope hopeful towards the end, zayn's appropriately hesitant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29773974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanailliterate/pseuds/nanailliterate
Summary: The temperature is low, spirits are even lower. It's just Zayn and Harry, and billions of stars.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Kudos: 9





	Nothing More but Counting Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that there are triggers I want to make very clear, namely suicidal thoughts and hopelessness. Please be aware of your current headspace and take care of your body and mind. Concludes on more of a hopeful note, but please read with caution regardless.
> 
> Some resources:  
> \- National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Hours: Available 24 hours. Call: 800-273-8255  
> \- Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 (24/7)  
> \- The Trevor Project: for crisis intervention and suicide prevention to LGBTQ youth  
> Contact information: 866-488-7386 (24/7)  
> Text START to 678678.  
> TrevorCHAT (instant messaging, available seven days a week 3 p.m.  
> to 10 p.m. EST/12 p.m. to 7 p.m. PST)

Zayn doesn’t know how long he stood there for. It may have been 15 minutes; it may have been 15 hours. He didn’t know. His legs felt like they were burning, it may have been from the cold, and it may have been from standing for so long. He didn’t know. All he knew was of the shallow water under him, and the cold wind hitting his face.

He breathes in the cold, foggy air and exhales. He looks to the left; nothing. He looks to the right; nothing. Nothing. There is never anything _but_ nothing, really. It’s always empty, and it’s always nothing. The world turned its back on him and left him in the dust to be nothing. Zayn doesn’t understand why there can’t ever be _something_.

Well, whatever the hell that means.

The only time he feels anything other than nothing is when he looks up. The stars are bright and beautiful. But really, what _is_ a star? Basically, stars are big exploding balls of gas, mostly hydrogen and helium. And when they burn out, they die. And then it’s back to nothing.

Zayn lets out a helpless, frustrated whimper. He grips the edge of the bridge tighter and starts counting to 10 again. Humors himself once again.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9… 10.

But he doesn’t let go, he never lets go. He doesn’t know how many times he’s counted to 10. Well, enough for his knuckles to turn white from gripping the metal pole, that much is clear. It’s just because _he never lets go_.

“Fucking coward.” He breathes to himself. He starts tapping on the pole, eliciting soft beats of a song he doesn’t know. Other than that, it’s quiet, just the sounds of cars going by (never stopping) and some nighttime wanders (never caring).

Fuck ‘em all.

He looks up at the stars and watches for a while. He thinks about counting again, but then a voice is interrupting him.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” The voice says.

Zayn doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the statement. Pretty. Dying stars and burning gas; and then nothing. That’s pretty.

“But it’s cold out here.” The voice speaks again.

Zayn sighs. Yeah, it is cold. He’s shivering, but he didn’t realize that it’s because of the cold.

“You wanna get down from there?” The voice, once again, speaks.

No, Zayn thinks, no he doesn’t. But he doesn’t say it. He just wants to count again. He wants to count and be in control. He wants to count and then call himself a coward again when he _doesn’t jump_ and he wants to start all over again. 1, 2, skip a few, 10.

“It’s really cold out here,” the voice says again, “You should’ve brought a jacket.”

And Zayn barks out a laugh because he’s standing on the ledge of a bridge and he’s about to jump (really he is, just let him count), and does it look like he needs a fucking jacket?

“I’m pretty sure death will hug me warm.” Zayn smiles to himself, looking straight ahead at the water. He wants to turn his head to look at the voice, but he’s afraid he’ll see nothing.

“I could do that for you.” The voice says. Zayn quirks an eyebrow and thinks to himself that, great, it's just his fucking luck. He's about to jump (he is) and some psychopath just wants to hug him, because that’s just plain strange. And that’s coming from someone about to count, jump, and soar.

“You wanna get down from there?” The voice asks again. And this time Zayn can’t resist. He turns his head to look, to see who this psychopath is. Zayn isn’t met with a psychopath, and he isn’t met with nothing. Instead he’s met with a warm smile and curly hair. Zayn barely registers that the lad is good looking before he’s gazing back to the water.

“Life stinks.” Zayn says.

“It does.” The voice agrees. Zayn looks at him, surprised because of the way Voice is smiling. A full blown smile, because life stinks.

“It’s cold out here and the waters probably cold too.” Voice continues.

Zayn nods and starts muttering to himself, “1, 2, 3, 4-” but Voice interrupts.

“5, 6, 7…”

"Do you know why I’m counting?” Zayn snaps back, eyes shooting daggers into Voice’s eyes.

“I gathered.” Voice smiles, “but I’m Harry.”

Zayn blinks.

Harry. Harry, the voice and Harry the psychopath. “Hi Harry.” Zayn says quietly.

Silence fills the air.

“And you are?” Voice, whose name is apparently Harry now, continues. Zayn thinks about it and mutters, “Nothing.”

Harry laughs. Throwing Zayn off again, “You don’t look like a Nothing. You look more like a Something.” And Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry. He thinks about telling him to go away and leave the cheesy, script-written phrases to Oprah, but that takes too much effort, too much emotion. So instead he whispers, “Zayn.”

“Oh. Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s cold.”

Zayn sighs and looks at Harry, whose shivering slightly, arms wrapped around himself protectively and fidgeting from foot to foot. Zayn steps off the bridge and walks past him, “Let’s go Harry.” And Harry follows after him.

XX

They walk a few blocks and turn a few corners and go past tons of buildings and faceless people. Zayn lights up a cigarette, fingers barely steady enough to flick his lighter on, and he assumes that Harry is the type of person to tell him that smoking is bad for him. It may be because Harry doesn't know him, or the fact that Zayn was going to attempt something far more threatening just minutes ago, but Harry doesn't say anything. Zayn doesn't feel angry or grateful for that, he feels nothing but the cold around him.

After the bite of winter becomes too much, they go into a museum; one of those 24 hour museums that tyro, angsty artists who are still trying to “find themselves” go to to get their art work displayed somewhere. There’s beautiful paintings and people murmuring and quiet music in the background and it’s so _quiet_. Harry contrasts to that. He talks and giggles and leads a silent Zayn to every single painting in the building. He explains the paintings on how he interprets them, forgetting that cards are already on display for that sole purpose. Each painting has its own story to Harry. Each one beautiful and not one is nothing.

“I like this one the best.” Harry says, pointing to dark one. The one that’s painted fully in black, with only the stars and a moon in the corner to distinguish that it really is a painting and not a black piece of black paper.

Zayn rolls his eyes. Of course Harry would like that one. Stars. Zayn feels inclined to ask, “Why?” And starts to wonder why and when Harry’s opinions started to matter.

Harry takes some time to think of his answer.

“I like stars. They’re bright and lively, but if you look close enough, really they’re just blinding and hallow. And highly disposable after some time. But yet they continue to exist, and light up someone’s night, even if they are really just burning themselves up to die. At least we get to enjoy the view. Stars are like us sometimes, you know?” He asks.

Zayn doesn't exactly know what Harry means, but he feels the sentiment enough. He turns his head and looks at his stranger. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Well, Zayn supposes, Harry’s right. Stars really are like us. Stars are born, stars grow, and stars die. And then they turn to nothing.

“I think stars are like us too.” Zayn says sadly. Harry doesn’t do anything more; but he does take Zayn’s hand. Zayn’s about to panic because he doesn’t really know Harry (Harry the psychopath, mind you) but then Harry’s dragging him out of the museum.

“I thought you were cold?” Zayn asks, stepping out into the cold pavement.

“Zayn, do you see how many jackets I have on?” Harry smiles. Oh, Zayn didn’t really notice, Harry’s bundled in jackets and scarfs.

“So you lied?” Zayn asks suspiciously, though no malice in his tone, just curiosity.

“Yeah.” Harry grins, fingers still interlocked with Zayn’s. Zayn should find it strange, but then again this day - and Harry overall - are both strange. And he doesn’t mind all that much anyway.

“Where are we going?” Zayn asks, and once again he should be more cautious, but he isn’t. Harry shrugs but keeps walking.

“Why did you pull me off that bridge?” Zayn asks again, always the curious and always questioning things, holding Harry’s hand tighter, “Why do you _care_?”

“I heard you counting.” Harry says simply. Zayn wants to ask why that even matters, but Harry continues, “You just stood there, over and over, you still had hope.”

“No, I really didn’t.” Zayn says solemnly, shaking his head.

Harry shakes his head too, “No you did. Counting. I think that counting made you slow down, and slowing down helped you think a little clearly, and the cold helps keep us steady. And, you made yourself count. I think for you to be stalling, you had hope.” Harry smiles.

Zayn shakes his head and smiles, the first smile he’s shown today, and looks at Harry. This boy is naive, and sweet, and fills something in Zayn that he can appreciate in this moment, in this relief. "I don't really get you, but you really are 'something' Harry, " he pauses and chuckles to himself, “for a psychopath.” He mutters. He couldn't even deny it, Harry really is something.

Harry raises an eyebrow at 'psychopath’ but doesn’t question it. Instead he squeezes on the hand he’s holding harder. And Zayn’s beginning to like that Harry's sociable enough to approach strangers in the dark of the night; he’s really beginning to like that Harry found _him_ in that dark night.

He still feels like nothing, or maybe like stars, burning up until they eventually have nothing else to do but cease. But this something next to him, this force that rooted him to the ground instead of in the sky, he's glad Harry saved him. In a world full of nothing, but dying stars and counting fate.

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on my tumblr blog on January 1st of 2013. I haven't read it since. I believe that writing was a huge source of comfort for me as I navigated my own feelings. Reading this back, though it's not an elaborate or particularly eventful story, I hold a lot of warmth for it. If I were to attempt to write something with similar thematic elements now, I would change some things pertaining to language and how these conversations could be conducted. I have a different perspective and almost a decade more experience. But, I've posted it almost completely as is, with one amendment to a paragraph at the end that I didn't feel comfortable with, just because of some assumptions that I think I made at the time. Though it's eating at me to not edit, I want to preserve this. Even just for myself.
> 
> I hope if anyone is feeling alone, they know that they have a billion stars with them. It helped me at the time. Please use the resources provided at the top if you need to <3


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